Almost Sunflowers
by aiiXael
Summary: After the dissolution of the USSR, America comforts an upset Russia. De-Anoned from the Kink Meme.


Empty. It was so empty. His house. Everyone gone. It had happened like that. He'd been in danger of losing everyone in his house for a while. But the war… and then the attempted coup… His boss had decided it was an acceptable loss. He disagreed.

Quiet echoed off the walls, ate into him as he pulled himself into a corner. His boss had decided everything, his people hated him, hell, and everyone hated him. But he had had friends. Well, maybe they didn't like him. Maybe they had hated him. But he had taken care of them, he took that hate and fear and gave them love. Certainly he had to put them in their places a few times, but that was what friends did right?

Loneliness ate into him as much as the silence did, and he fumbled to open a thick bottle, closing his eyes as the scent of alcohol spilled into the room, then he lifted it to his lips and gulped it down, ignoring the burn—or rather, relishing it. He felt sick and his vodka would help him. It always did. While the other nations would abandon him, Vodka was always there, always the same. He looked down at the bottle, barely visible in the dark, and slowly made circles with it in the air, the liquid in it slowly swirling.

Estonia had been the first to declare independence, and Lithuania followed soon after. It wasn't long until his boss had decided that the union of their houses, or rather, that his house would be better held alone. And so it was—all the other nations gone, in their own houses. Only he was left. It had been years since he had been this alone, and he felt it grip at his throat. He put the bottle back to his mouth and forced the burn in his eyes away with the burn of alcohol.

He was on his third bottle when there was a knock on the door. He let the visitor knock—which whoever it was did, and quite loudly too—refusing to acknowledge them. They would leave him soon enough, sooner if they didn't think he was home. It was probably just a nation coming to rub their independence in his face.

But the knocking continued, before the visitor tried the door anyway. He heard the handle click and the creak of hinges as the door opened--and hadn't he locked it? He could vaguely remember locking it, but it was fuzzy.

"Russia, I know you're home." And the voice was unmistakable. America. He could smell him too, smell the scent of dust and the west, and the warmth… and almost… sunflowers. He curled himself further into the corner. He watched the young nation look around the room, squint into the shadows, before his eyes settled on the sulking nation. "Why didn't you answer the door? And why is it so dark in here?"

"Go away," the larger nation slurred out, his eyes flashing a furious violet. America was the last nation he wanted in his home right now. Not after… everything that had happened. Not when he knew what was coming, knew it like he knew the cold. America had probably been dying for this moment since their relations had fallen apart. Probably had been ticking the days off his calendar—the day when he could laugh in his face, and tell him that he told him so.

"Uhm… No?" America replied, and shut the door behind him, before the wind could freeze the house anymore than it already was. "Jeeze, it's freaking cold in here. Can't you, you know, light a fire or anything? Turn the heat up? It can't be comfortable, and it would probably be more comfortable if you didn't have to wear that big coat."

"I said, go away!" the larger nation snapped, and his face was wild then, wild then America could ever remember seeing it. The Russian had always been a little bit insane, but it was usually just that—now he could see the fear in his eyes, and the grief, and it was like watching a wounded animal that had just been shot in the leg. Not dead, but not wanting any help either, and would go so far as to bleed to death in the process of keeping everyone away.

America frowned, moving a little closer slowly approaching the other nation with his hands up. "Hey, I'm not gonna hurt you. I just came to visit, and see if you were okay. I mean, you're done with communism now… maybe we could…" Go back to being friends. Or at least not enemies. He didn't say it, couldn't get the words past his lips, and so ended up trailing off.

"Don' care what we could do, I care that you get out of my house! Just… leave me alone," Russia spat, stumbling upwards, and then the floor was moving and he was stumbling forward, and maybe he had had more vodka than he had originally thought, because when America lunged forward to catch him he didn't pull back.

There was a long moment of silence then:

"Jeeze, Ivan, how much did you freaking drink? You smell like a bar. Fuck, you smell worse than a bar. You smell like you bathed in it."

Russia jerked back harshly, and America came with him, stumbling over his own feet and an empty bottle of vodka, catching himself on the Russian's scarf. Of course he chose the wrong place to grab, and the person with the wrong level of sobriety, and they both went down. America's back hit the ground hard, Texas falling off his face and skittering on the hard wood. The nation was ready to laugh, despite the ache in his back, but the breath was knocked out of him by the heavier nation slamming down on top of him with a grunt. The bottle Russia had been holding was shattered under his hand, and alcohol spilled everywhere, slowly soaking into America's clothes like a bad joke.

"Fuck." America said. Then, "You okay?

Russia didn't move for a moment, tired not to care about America's hips jabbing into his stomach, or the warmth that was spilling from the other nation, almost too warm, almost. "Feel sick."

"Please don't puke on me."

"I think my bottle broke…."

"I think you broke my ribs. You can get another bottle—you're drunk enough anyway."

"Not really. I could use more…."

"Shit, Russia, you're bleeding."

"I am?"

"Yeah, you cut up… Never mind. Get off me, and stop leaning against your hand." It was an order, not a request.

"It's nothing. Had worse." He was reluctant to leave that warmth—even if it was America's warmth, but he complied, slowly pulling himself up into a sitting position, next to the blond nation. Then he was looking at the fragments of glass littering the ground where his hand had been, and the liquid slowly seeping further and further out, though at least a fourth of it had soaked into America's clothing and hair. Red was slowly fogging up the parts that hadn't. A child-like frown curved his lips downwards. What a waste.

Then America's hand was on his, gently pulling his arm closer to his face, looking down at the few pieces of glass embedded in flesh, with a frown, squinting slightly. Russia knew the reason why—his glasses were still splayed awkwardly on the floor a few feet away. But without the glasses his eyes were…. His eyes were practically glowing they were so blue. "We need to get you cleaned up," he decided, and stood slowly, stretching out his back.

"Alfred?"

America looked down at the other man, feeling a slight spark in his belly at his name being spoken for the first time by the Russian in decades. "Yeah?" he asked.

The Russian in question handed him back his glasses with a slight frown. His eyes no longer held the angry fire, instead they were dully resigned. He looked almost like a child who had been beat one too many times.

"Thanks," America answered, taking his glasses, and carefully cleaning them off before he slid them back up his nose. The room slid back into full focus and he gave Ivan a thumbs-up. "Much better. I'll be right back, alright? Just… don't go anywhere."

He turned to make a hasty retreat to the bathroom, but a cold hand caught his wrist tightly, stopping him where he stood. "Why?"

"Why what? You're bleeding and you put bandages on wounds, so they heal faster?"

"No," Russia's brows furrowed at this, and he dropped his eyes to the ground. "Why are you here? If you're thinking of invading…"

"I'm not invading you," America interrupted, with a sigh. He let Russia slowly pull him back down to kneel in front of him. "We used to be friends, remember? Before your boss changed and you became a commie bastard. But you're not anymore… and… well, I heard that the, ah, union you had disbanded, and I was… uh, concerned, I guess… Have you been here alone this whole time? It's almost the new year…"

Russia didn't say anything for a long moment, long enough that America thought he wasn't going to say anything at all. His eyes were unfocused and glassy, probably a result of the alcohol, but they held a sadness that America didn't even want to think about. He missed the old Ivan—the one that would put up with his dreams and his bullshit. Hell, he even missed the Ivan that he had had a pissing contest with the past few decades. He'd expected to get that Ivan when he came, expected to be turned away with foul words and a fouler temper. But what he got was worse—this was the one side of Russia he hadn't wanted to see.

"We… were friends… we became one, yes? And now…" Russia frowned, shifting his position so he was leaning closer to America, and even through the spill of alcohol he could smell America's scent. It made him dizzy, but he didn't stop speaking, the ends of his lips curving their way upwards, his eyes burning. His grip tightened on America's wrist, growing harsh, grinding the bones together. He didn't seem to realize what he was doing. "I'm alone again."

"Russia…" America started and then stopped, slowly touching the hand which had his in a vice grip, prying his fingers off slowly. It was then Ivan seemed to realize what he was doing and his grip slackened much to the American's appreciation. "Ivan…." He wasn't sure what to say, and so he ended up trailing off. Maybe England had been right—he really ought to learn a bit more diplomacy so he knew what the hell to say to a drunk and depressed nation. Instead of speaking, he slowly pressed his forehead against Russia's, letting out a sigh.

The larger nation, blinked slowly, and his smile faltered. He gently touched America's cheek, and the blond hissed as his thumb stroked a sensitive area.

"You're bleeding."

America laughed then, he wasn't sure why, he was just glad Russia had broken the silence. As for the cut on his cheek—it must have happened when the glass shattered. He hadn't even noticed it before Russia had pointed it out, but it now it ached. Russia's thumb dug into that spot, watching the blood pool quicker to the surface, as a hiss of pain escaped America's throat and his eyes clenched tight. Blood slowly dribbled down the younger nation's cheek, and his eyelashes fluttered. Russia watched the ruby liquid with fascination, before slowly sliding his tongue along the small rivulet, up to the wound itself, pressing a rough kiss against it.

America didn't try to stop him—there was no point. Instead, he tilted his chin up, feeling Ivan's teeth against his cheek, almost a bite. Then the large nation was moving again, sliding his mouth down, to catch America's with his own, and the land of the free complied, reveling in the taste of vodka and cold winters and Russia.

It was over as soon as it started, Russia breaking the contact to bury his head in America's shoulder, letting out a breath. He wrapped his arms around the smaller American, gripping tight to his back. "Why can't you just leave me alone?"

America touched Russia's hair gently before resting his chin on the top of his head. "You know me. I never was good at following directions. Besides—it's you. I practically live to irritate you."

"Я ненавижу тебя," Ivan said but it was empty of emotion. It was a phrase Alfred knew—he'd heard it used enough over the last few decades against him when Ivan got angry enough to abandon the English language—but he pretended not to, staying silent with his arms wrapped tight around the larger nation. Russia didn't say anything for a long time after that, and America had just started to think he was finally falling asleep.

And then, in a voice barely audible:

"Я соскучился по тебе."

"… I missed you too..."


End file.
